


Champagne Punch and Homemade Eggnog

by Meduseld



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Merry Christmas from the team, There's no real relationships so you could read this however you like, There's support for it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: The team celebrates their first holiday together. It’s a Christmas miracle that no one gets hurt.





	Champagne Punch and Homemade Eggnog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SydneyMo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyMo/gifts).



December in Miami is strange. The weather never turns truly cold, there’s no snow and there are pink plastic lawn flamingos everywhere.

When she was a girl, and upset at Herr Schmidt, or the girls at school that giggled at her, or her mother, or anything and everything, she’d promise herself that one day she’d run far, far away. They’d been too poor for her to have a door of her own to slam, so she’d made do picturing the exotic places she’d visit, so different from dismal, dreary, walled off Berlin. There would be tigers and lions and sword swallowers and she wouldn’t be poor or hungry or dirty. Instead she would, she promised herself, ride around in sleek and powerful cars and whenever she spoke, people would listen.

That last, at least, had come true. Waverly and Napoleon and Illya listened to her, and let her drive the getaway cars even though half of those were stolen rust buckets and the last mad rich bastard bent on world domination that they’d taken care of had kept a menagerie with tigers. No lions yet, but there’s always hope.

At thirteen, the idea of snow free Christmas would have thrilled her. Now she’s not so sure.

The green grass feels a little mocking and she feels a little unmoored. If it’s strange for her, she can’t imagine what it’s like for Illya, stranded in art-deco Miami in so far from concrete infused Soviet architecture. Napoleon, on the other hand, seems to be in his element: linen beach shirts and overly bright cocktails.

They’ve been a team for nearly three years now but this is their first Christmas, because after their last round of property destruction with the requisite flamboyant escape Waverly decided they needed a bit of a break. Or maybe he’d said that _he_ needed a bit of a break. Migraines always made him mumble. But the end result was the same, the three of them in a flimsy beachfront condo.

Half the time Gaby was unsure if she should hide the knives or leave them sitting on the countertop, just to see what would happen. U.N.C.L.E had tried housing them separately in the past but that hadn’t worked out. Between noise complaints, the seduced and irate neighbors, the small scale fires, Illya’s dark murmuring about capitalist excess and the best unmentioned alpaca-based incident in Perú they’d given up. So now they had to face the gauntlet of their longest cohabitation ever, without a mission and purpose to guide them. And the tinsel and forced cheer of Christmas time.

Napoleon, of course, had immediately declared they should “celebrate in style”. In response, Illya had, quite literally, vaulted out of the window. Which of course had led to a new branch in the Cold War: The Great Battle of the Christmas Ornaments. Napoleon would put up decorations and Illya would bring them down, while they both pretended nothing was going on.

She might put a stop to it, she was especially tempted after the small pink aluminum Christmas tree that she’d become so fond of had turned up charred at the bottom of their swimming pool, if she didn’t suspect they were both having a great deal of fun. And in any case it was likely it was the only thing keeping them from _real_ mischief. Besides, despite how cheery Gaby had found the tree, it was no great loss. No one even used the pool, and she privately agreed with Illya that it was excessive when the ocean was right there.

It was also nice to see that he was closer to being back to his usual _almost_ -calm-and-grounded self. He’d been secretly thrilled at Miami, so close to Cuba and his brothers in communist revolution. Gaby and Napoleon had exchanged worried looks but nothing could really be done about it. Illya had to find out for himself that the Cubans living in Miami were the kind that hated the regime, and Castro, and anything even vaguely Soviet. It was a terrible shame, she would have enjoyed hearing him speak far more than the three or four lines of Spanish he had managed to get out before the yelling started. She and Napoleon had dragged him away before any real damage could be done, even if he’d sulked in his room for days afterward.

Napoleon’s insistence on the holiday had brought energy back into the small condo. Illya had of course protested, and Napoleon had feigned shock that he’d be opposed. “It’s an event centered around giving and sharing and _community_. Santa Claus even wears _red_!” It had sparked a small fight that eventually devolved into them wrestling in the backyard until they’d rolled into the pool and called a truce. Personally, Gaby thought she’d won that round. They’d been quite a sight, in wet clothes sticking to them, all flushed and panting. It was one of the nicer things about living together. Like waking up in her own bed and not with a crick in her neck on the couch after a night where all she wanted to do was drink and play music so loud she couldn’t hear herself think. Napoleon cooked too, and quite well, even if that meant she and Illya were stuck with dishes.

But the strangeness of all of it hit her full force when she and Napoleon had liberated a neighborhood sportscar she’d been lusting after, the owners being in the Bahamas, and gone shopping for presents.

“I just don’t know what to get him, I mean, what does Illya even like? Is it nothing? I feel like the answer might be nothing” she says to Napoleon as they elbow their way through the crowd of holiday shoppers. It’s disorienting, the decoration and the food being so much like the holiday treats she remembers from home but the people in shorts and sandals and tans. “You, for one” Napoleon says with a laugh and she steps on his foot. There are things they’ve tacitly agreed not to talk about. Or Gaby had agreed and allowed nothing else. Details.

He drops the subject and they wander around, idly window shopping and laughing and daring each other to wear ridiculous outfits. She’ll never have his, or Illya’s, eye for fashion but she can appreciate it all the same. At some point, Napoleon ducks in and out of a shop smugly, a mysterious package under his arm. She pretends not to notice, because that’s what you do for the people you care about, sometimes.

She’s ready to declare the expedition a failure, partly because dusk is finally falling and partly because she doesn’t want him to know she’d done some ducking of her own and had a small box concealed cleverly in her hat, when she spots it in the corner of her eye.

She rushes into the small shop like she’s chasing down a spy and points to it with a loud “how much?”. The toothless woman behind her smiles in time with Napoleon’s soft sigh behind here: “Oh, Gaby. That’s perfect. He’ll love it”. “He better” is all she says, scowling around her uncertainty.

Napoleon kisses her hair and buys her cupcakes, one to make her smile and one to take home. Illya refuses to try it, sinful capitalist baked good that it is, until Napoleon pretends he’ll take it for himself. He lunges forward, taking a big bite and nearly a chunk of Napoleon’s fingers in the process. Napoleon laughs himself sick at Illya’s frosting half-beard. If Gaby spends the rest of the night thinking about what would have happened had she _licked_. Well. That’s her problem and no one else’s.

The days pass quickly, and in an eye-blink it’s December 23rd. She’s fairly certain the boys have been shopping for presents, or hopes rather. They do take excursions, together and separately, out of the house. On those days Gaby either lounges around the house the pretends she can afford all by her lonesome, both economically and socially, with an endless amount of doors to slam to her heart’s content or, instead, she heads down the more brackish streams of water and learns to handle a speedboat as well as she can a car. Just in case. That night at dinner Napoleon mysteriously produces a bottle of expensive champagne and toasts to the “Eve of Christmas Eve!” “ _That_ is _not_ a holiday” Illya says and they squabble. Gaby smiles until her cheeks hurt and thinks: _I could do this forever_.

They all pretend the next day is nothing special, even though they spend it together, and Napoleon cooks a gigantic and ridiculous meal that makes her moan and Illya cough. He makes eggnog too, which neither she nor Illya enjoy, but he seems happy. Even if he is drinking some sort of sweetened egg broth.

They turn in early, each casting a meaningful look at the peach colored aluminum tree that has mysteriously appeared in the living room. When she wakes around two in the morning to put her presents under it she finds there’s two already there. She refuses to peak at the labels, sure there will be six in the morning. Mostly sure. Still, she takes the time to grab all five of the cookies placed on the mantle. It’s the principle of the thing.

In the morning, she debates for a while whether she should change into the sleek silk pajamas she still owns after the mission in Dakar. Most of the time she tumbles out of bed in her usual set, and the boys have seen it a million times. They’ve also seen her covered in mud and blood, her hair singed and greasy, and even her eyes red and black and blue. They won’t care. She still changes into them and feels foolish. But outside Napoleon lights up, clearly waiting for her, for _them_. She realizes suddenly that it’s his first Christmas in a long time and she’s glad.

Illya doesn’t make them wait long, for his presence at least, but he makes a big show of getting coffee first. He’s smiling though, underneath his carefully blank expression. It pleases her that she can tell, that it took her less time than she’d thought. Napoleon of course insists that he get to give out his presents first, undoing any illusion of Santa Claus. Illya points that out and they get into another tangled argument until she sticks out her hand for hers. It’s clearly a shoebox, but she makes a show of guessing.

They’re a beautiful pair, a dark shimmering blue. But from Napoleon’s face there’s more to it. She runs her fingers over them, the way she does engines, willing them to give up their secrets. Finally she finds a catch, and with a click she finds a secret compartment in the heels. It could hold any number of things and she smiles. Illya nods approvingly. Then he gets handed a long box of his own. It’s a watch, a classic design with a brown leather strap. It looks like another one he owns and Illya’s eyes have gone wide and he has to swallow a few times before he can speak. “Thank you” is all he manages, before blindly waving his hand around for another present. Gaby winces slightly as she gives her present to him, still unsure.

He unwraps it quickly and then opens it slowly, reverently. He runs his long fingers down the pages, given special care the illustrations. “Do you like it?” she says. She knows nothing of traditional Russian fairy tales but Napoleon had assured her she hadn’t accidentally bought him a book of dirty stories instead. “I thought you might like to have a touch of home”. His eyes snap up and his hands close rhythmically around the edges. “May- h _m_ \- May I...hug you?” he says and she blushes. He’s careful, with his big solid arms around her. Her heart feels hot and swollen, like the kind of bruises she likes to poke at. She has to look away and uses the moment to give her present to Napoleon.

“They’re lovely” he says with a smile when he pulls out the silvery cufflinks. Illya nods his approval and Napoleon immediately goes into his room for a crisp white shirt so he can model for them. He pretends to walk down a catwalk, pouty lips and sucked in cheeks. It’s the laugh they need to break the tension. Which is exactly when she notices that there really are another two packages under the tree and freezes. Illya clears his throat awkwardly.

“Well. It would be against the Soviet way to take and not give” he says and it’s a credit to Napoleon that he doesn’t start another fight.

Instead, Gaby takes a small box in hands that are trying not to shake. “No bugs this time. I promise” Illya says with a watery smile. Inside are two small earrings, made of dark blue sapphires. They match her shoes and she has to smile. Gaby makes plans to convince them to take her dancing, to show all this off.

Illya tosses the other package at Napoleon’s head. He catches it easily.

From inside he pulls out watch looks like a simple handkerchief to Gaby. But Napoleon’s eyes go wide and he sputters. “It’s-I-” “Exactly what you were missing, I know” says Illya. “It’s _Balenciaga_ ” says Napoleon. “Not all who speak Spanish here hate me. And some even know a thing or two of proper men’s wear, and where to get it” he says, smug and Napoleon looks radiant.

They head out to breakfast eventually, the promise of mimosas and sunshine enough to shake them out of the comforts of home. Gaby’s teenage self would be proud, when she stopped being appalled at the lack of laziness. The green grass seems to wave to them, as they leave.

She walks between her boys, not in her new heels yet, arms hooked into theirs. For the first time she feels this might be exactly where she belongs. Where she’ll stay.

Her breath catches in her throat and when they pause she says  “Merry Christmas!” and uses her momentum to flip them forward and watch them flail while she smiles.

They chase her around the flamingos on the perfect lawns until the sun is high in the sky and the drinks are overdue.

It’s the best Christmas ever, she decides.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Robert Earl Keene's [Merry Christmas from the Family](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P37xPiRz1sg).


End file.
